


V For Vivacity

by SilverShortyyy



Series: V is the Roman Numeral Five [1]
Category: V for Vendetta (2005)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Light Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2019-01-29 18:27:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12636690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverShortyyy/pseuds/SilverShortyyy
Summary: Never has he seen the Gallery so vibrant, the walls and columns no longer looking old and unpolished, and the paintings looking everyday as if they were smiling at him. But no other in the Gallery smiles like her.





	V For Vivacity

**Author's Note:**

> Vivacity  
> n: the quality or state of being lively in temper, conduct, or spirit

I

He brings her to his home, unconscious, and lays her down on his black leather couch before setting off to make preparations for her room-to-be. They would find her if he brought her to her home, find her and take her and, no, he could not bear to think of what they’d do to her.

So he brought her home and tended to her wounds and made arrangements that he hopes they’d both grow to be comfortable with.

But before he stands up and off the carpet by the couch, he notices the soft glow of her cheeks and the way it graces the leather of the couch like feather-light touches by angelic fingertips. He notices the way her blonde hair drapes all around her like a halo, like golden waves cascading around her and all around the black leather.

He pays it no mind the first time around, though he knows he’s stared for at least a second too long. So he gets up and sets off making their new living arrangements, all with a background of some music.

He walks back and forth, through doors and doorways and past paintings of all sorts. He passes by the couch too many times for him to count, but all the while he notices his steps having become lighter, no longer pressing firmly on the carpet or marble as if there is a spring attached somewhere on the sole of his shoe. What’s new? He goes on to think of anything other than his damsel that had changed in the Gallery. Is it, perhaps, the song? Twenty years of playing all those 872 songs had never had this effect on him. Perhaps the piano had been changed to a much less irritating angle? But he doesn’t remember having touched that for at least a month. Or perhaps the satisfaction of rearranging and cleaning up certain disorderly places?

Perhaps. He considers it, and finishes his work. From the doorway he looks over his damsel’s new room, and feels the satisfaction sink in. Satisfaction indeed. The room looks near impeccable, though not perfect in all eyes. To him, though, it is excellent. And so he made his way back to the main gallery, back to his black leather couch where she was still asleep.

“Evey.” He whispers, feeling the taste of her name on his mouth. Satisfaction at unknown capability, yes, that’s why his heart rate is slightly faster, why his footfalls are lighter. Yes. He feels the way her name vibrates on his lips, the way it slides on his tongue before being taken away by the wind. He watches her sleep, and he remembers the couch being shrouded in darkness and having known no other occupant than him.

For twenty years, that couch looked to be a creation of the dark; a mere illusion of being in the prominent shadows of the Gallery.

And then, the illusion was no longer an illusion and the dark no longer claiming creation over the piece of furniture. Suddenly, it glows, though very unnoticeably so. He takes it in, the way the backrest is faintly brushed with light, the way the leather no longer looks like the shadows it has known so well for twenty years. He traces the top of the couch, its outline more than just a carving out of darkness. He follows its downward slope, plunging away onto the armrest where a stray strand of blonde curls unfurl, and he sees her face.

Her face, and her pale pink lips that are open just the slightest bit, her chest heaving up and down ever so slightly with her shallow breaths. Her pale pink lips seem to bleed into the air around her, the darkness of the couch surrounding her bathed with a heavily diluted, immensely watery hue that, for a regular person, would be unnoticeable.

But he had known this couch for twenty years.

He approaches her slowly, his feet tense and his heartbeat racing. Trepidation? What for? She is asleep, unconscious, incapable of having a conscious response. So why is he so… Anxious to approach her?

He plants his feet firmly on the carpet, feeling the fibers flex beneath the sole of his shoes. He takes each step in time with a deep breath, trying to calm his heart that feels like it would break out if his ribcage if he didn’t try hard enough to keep it in.

He lowers himself slowly in front of her, his knees resting onto the soft carpeting of the viewing area. He couldn’t move his arms, at least not as fast and nimble as he usually does. What is happening to him? Slowly, he raises his arms to carry her, and slowly he slips his arms beneath her knees and beneath her back.

She is inches away from him, and he can feel the heat radiating off of her.

He feels heat radiate off of other humans all the time. What makes her so different?

He carefully pushes off of the carpet, lifting her off the leather and watching the soft glow around her leave the couch. Slowly, slowly, slowly. But when he carries her in his arms inches off of the couch, its black leather no longer boasts of being sculpted from darkness nor shaped from the shadows. Instead, it looks to be faintly shining with its own gleam.

He carries her down carpet and marble, and he feels his heart slow down. The former pace akin to a horse race had become much more like the beat of a slow dance, steady and strong with a pulse that resounds all over his body. He wonders if in her unconscious state she could feel it as much as he could. Then he realizes how aware he is of her, of her hair that brushes his waist and of her hand hanging low enough to brush his knee. Of the way her hips fit below his chest, cradled by his stomach while her other arm is folded and rested against his chest. He thinks of how strongly he feels her thighs and legs that squeeze his arm, and the softness of her curves on the other side of his leather gloves.

He enters the doorway to her bedroom and feels it immediately radiating an energy, looking much brighter than it had before he left it to go get her. He sets her down softly on the cotton sheets, feeling her heat leave embers on his skin so unlike the embers from long ago, because her heat is the kind that one feels from a warm flame on a cold, winter night.

She pulls him, like a magnet, and he wishes to stay, wishes to linger, but knows it inappropriate. So despite his desire, he backs away slowly, unwilling to relinquish the sight just yet. There she lies, her blonde hair like a halo around her head on the pillow, with her cheeks puffed just in the slightest while her pale pink lips are apart just a hair’s breadth. There she lies, with soft, shallow breaths, that of a serene and peaceful slumber. There she lies, and he stands in the doorway just before closing the door and ending the show, tracing her outline one last time.

He closes the door and turns back to face his Shadow Gallery no longer shrouded in shadows. And, he thinks, every part of it she has touched in those few moments seems to have born a faint vibrance that it has never known.

Even moreso with himself.

II

Without spotting a blonde blur in the edge of his line of sight, he can feel when she moves, when she exits her room and begins to wander. He can hear her footfalls, no matter how silent, and he can feel the air moving in the direction she moves, pushing in the direction her body pushes to go.

So he feels her walking down hallways and peeking into rooms many corridors away from him, and he finds himself unable to keep his mind straight.

 _I’m worried she might go somewhere she is unwanted._ Which is his reason for going out to observe her.

Observe. Yes. Observe.

He hears her silent footfalls getting closer, and he spots a blur of blonde curls entering a hallway at least a yard away from him. He follows her, careful not to make a sound; either way, she wouldn’t hear him. But he just wants to make sure.

He watches her, trailing behind her just far enough for her not to notice. And he knows she hasn’t noticed because her shoulders are still relaxed, her eyes still wide with wonder, her footfalls still a soft thud against the carpet while her fingers brush painting after painting, frame after frame, and glass casing after glass casing while marvelling at whatever materials are kept within.

He watches her, and he watches the light cast halos around her blonde head. He watches her, and he watches the way her softly glowing fingertips leave a faint light spreading over golden frames and glass barriers. He watches, and he feels her warmth spread like her light touch; she is at least five strides away from him, and yet her warmth is feet past him, having already wrapped him up.

Observe. Yes. No.

He cannot keep himself from following her.

He watches her, and soon he sees her tense up. They are in a hall sidled with paintings on either side, painting after painting adorning the walls. Her toes are curled up, and her breathing has become more shallow, her heartbeat heavier.

Her head snaps to look to her right, and she sees him approaching.

“Stop doing that!” But in her frown is a hint of a smile.

“My apologies, dear Eve. I cannot help but notice you have wandered into a rather marvelous part of the Gallery.” And marvelous it is indeed.

But amidst the many faces on the paintings whether smile or frown, none could compare to her.

“How long have you noticed me?”

“For a… Considerable while.” Then he points out the painting she had been staring at. It was a woman, and he couldn’t help the lingering thought that if he were to paint a woman, a beautiful woman, he would paint Evey.

III

He admittedly should not have spent all night reading by the piano.

“V?” Her voice comes like an echo, a distant voice he wishes would sing for him in his slumber.

“Mmm.” He murmurs, turning his head to the side. Luckily, the mask keeps the book from falling.

“V?” Her voice is nearer now, louder, and most likely in the same room already.

At most, a meter away from him.

“V!” One of her hands come to rest on his chest, and he feels as if his heart is shocked with electricity, jolted awake by medical contraptions even if it is only her skin. Her skin on his shirt, just a few millimeters of fabric covering his flesh. If he had not been too aware of himself, he would have thought there is now sparks dancing on his chest from her hand. “I know you’re a hard-working anarchist and all, but would it kill you to not sleep on the piano stool?” She yanks away the book and slams it down onto the closed piano.

“Good morning to you too, dear Evey.” He says, his voice husky. He clears his throat before speaking again, though he swears he sees her eyes widen and her cheeks flush after his morning greeting. “I simply fell asleep while reading a most necessary book. Forgive me for worrying you.”

“Worrying me?” She takes her place beside him as he pushes himself up to sit, her hand sliding down onto his thigh.

He feels the way her fingertips run down his stomach, as if tracing a line of fireworks on his cloth-clad skin before brushing over to his thigh, skipping an inch as he pulls himself up to sit. Her hand rests on his thigh, her fingers spread all over it. The ghost of her touch sizzles on his skin, a fading ember still alive with a faint electric pulse. Beneath her palm, on the other hand, his thigh feels ablaze, but not with heat of anger and rage, but an animating kind of flame.

Suddenly, he isn’t so groggy anymore.

“I wasn’t worried, V.” She’s lying. “Well, I was, but, I was just thinking of you.” Her warm brown eyes pierce him, and his breath catches in his throat but he wrestles to keep it hidden. His heart skips a beat, and he feels his entire body flush. “You wouldn’t sleep too comfortable on wood with no cushion, would you?”

“Right you are, Evey.” He rests his leather-gloved hand on hers, and dear God can he feel her on his skin. “Though I think I’m no longer craving for sleep.”

“Alright, V.” She says, putting her hand over his. “Whatever you say.”

She gets up and makes to walk away, smiling at him as she did. Her hands slide off of his as if in slow motion, and her warmth leaves slowly, slowly, slowly, but never really leaves him, even after she’s left the room.

IV

No revolution goes by without celebration.

And what is a celebration without dancing?

For twenty years, the paintings had smiled at him as much as his mask. For twenty years, the brightest smile had been the smiles of age-old actors behind a glass screen. For twenty years, he had only known the brightness and warmth of the few lights he kept on when he was at work.

But now, he stares down at her from behind his mask, and for once he’s mirroring the expression of the plastic he wears over his scarred skin. And for once, a smile brighter than even his own stares back at him.

“I find it a little odd to be dancing at a time like this.” She says, and even if the disco ball had not been brought out to scatter all those stray bits of light around them, he thinks she would’ve made the Gallery glow nonetheless. “On the eve of your revolution.”

“Ah, but that is it, Evey.” He says, and he feels himself inch closer to her. He would make to move away, but she simply moves closer as well. He feels her heat radiating off of her; her lips may have traded her smile for curiosity, but her eyes still smile back up at him. “A revolution is marked with celebration. And in celebrations, we dance.”

“You were never the type to celebrate after, were you?”

“Perhaps I find it more convenient to celebrate now. Now, during the present, which is a celebration in itself; gifts are given during celebrations are they not?” He chuckles then, and she laughs. He wonders at the way she bites her lip, at the smile that is left on her face like a shadow to her laugh. She glows, and he thinks even if all the lights are off, she would be enough to light his way out of the dark.

“They are, V.” And there is a shine in her eyes. A glimmer. An unsaid string of words that her eyes try to deliver. “They are.”

He feels the warmth of her body against his when she leans into him, wrapping her arms around him as they sway softly. He rests his head on hers, and his hands slide around to let his arms wrap around her waist. She is warmth, and a heady feeling, and he feels everything unravel in her arms as if the shadows are retreating and the darkness is lifting.

V

She stands in the middle of his Gallery a year later. A year after—

A year. It has been a year.

She stands in front of the mirror she had pieced together, the mirror he had shattered after she left. He told her once before he didn’t need that mirror anymore, that it is fine with him to be without it. But once upon a time, he looked in this mirror and put on his mask.

Once upon a time, he had taken it off.

And she had left.

She feels the heat of one of his masks as she tastes the salt of her tears, and she remembers not being able to breathe after making her way out of the prison and into the main gallery. But she cannot breathe now even if she took off the mask. She cannot breathe, because everything is suffocating and he is not there to make it all better.

God is in the rain, but V is not.

V is in the man that she sent off on that train that night, the man who had rescued her long time ago and the man who had liberated an entire nation on his own.

 _Not without you._ But Evey knows he would have done great even without her.

So she stands in front of his mirror, his mask on her face, and she undoes the leather clasps keeping it together. She tastes salt on her lips and feels a trail get burned down her cheeks; her vision is swimming and nothing is clear. But nothing has been clear for a while now, nothing but her memories of him.

But she lifts and lowers the mask off her face and down onto his table, onto the wood he had touched with his hands whether clad and leather or not. She takes his mask off, and when she takes it off, she copies its smile. Copies it, because he wouldn’t want her to cry on the day of his triumph.

So she smiles despite her tears, and she knows he’d say her smile is still the brightest of all that he’s ever seen, even when tears stream down her cheeks because—

It’s been a year since he died.

And Evey had long since realized that no other would become her life like V did.

She turns on the jukebox and dances to his favorite songs. Because a revolution is not without celebration, and a celebration is not without dance nor gifts.

And his gift to her was a dance, his last dance. Her gift to him, she hopes, is the rest of her life.


End file.
